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Information about the successful repair of a death-van belonging to yours truly had reached the ossicles within my skull via murmurings from the hole in which my tongue hid. Possessing me for several years, the habit seemed to have begun directly after the last murder. Prompts would often arise from others present in the vicinity, alerting to my selfish and private output; the worst could have been on a rush hour tram in Manchester when I embarked on an experientially-informed analysis of an amateur autopsy. Irregularly I would attempt persuading myself to travel using mediums brimming with the stench of regular humans, in order to verify that in particular ways I was quite like them. Self-coersion usually failed and I would end up woefully isolated, jangling the keys of a van while thinking about the past, with my oral cavity belching slight words in a future tense.
One of the several appendages on the bunch of van openers was a keepsake from a previous encounter: a large die-cast flag of Tristan da Cunha. Two prominent things troubled me about the accessory and I had on many occasions considered aggressively disposing of it. Firstly, the lack of functionality that this object provided to my existence, and finally the dimensional frivolity. This second issue had deterred me from parting with the item of no purpose moreso than the reason I had retained it initially, for the thing was contructed with such resistance that satisfactory annhiliation would require it to be molten.
Informed by this dilemma, several years ago I had procured entry-level home foundry equipment including the necessary tools to create what I assumed would be a tabernacle of fire suitable for the correction of said appendage. It should have occurred to me when clicking 'buy it now' on eBay that my technical aptitude for preparing such equipment was negligible, and subsequently the furnace elements lay cold in my bathroom cupboard for a number of years.
There will seemingly never be any clarity as to why I transferred the infernal tools to a van but the ultimate purpose became evident when the assemblage assumed an ornamental essence. No longer do I trouble myself about neglecting the invocation of my possibility to smelt, but I do now have an additional, visible item of dysfunctionality to upset my personal space. The last time I got into feng shui, it considerably backfired and I rebelled, littering a van with small porcelain clowns. Due to the haphazard placement, at least once I smashed two with the palm of my foot and painted the remains with seepings from freshly sliced meat at the extent of my limb.
Fourty-seven intact clowns and shards of one other and a half which had imposed a flesh levy remained in a van while being maintained by a so-called mechanic. The unaccounted remnants of half a lifeless entertainer garnished the engine in it's most sensitive areas, and had led to the demise of the vehicle after my retrospectively foolish reaction, which was to try and make the vehicle share the pain in my foot. I hoped that the so-called mechanic observed the poreclain idiocies in the radiator and swiftly disposed of any useless keyring accessories.


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Mechanics might seem to have a favourite tool and this so-called agent provided me with no exception to the assumption. The spanner in his hand seemed to be welded in place as he used it to brush aside the facial obstruction caused by lank hair, making the residue on the follicles more apparent. Pondering whether it was human grease, machine oil or beautician's lard bought me a few seconds away from matters of existence as the gurgling of the complication was issued. The rectification was mutually agreed and I vowed to avoid aggravated geomancy from then on, at least in the confines of a van. Aside, the dawdling scent of expiration was enough to garnish the interior of my modes with felicity. Incidentally She had been one. In conclusion I declared to myself that it was oil from my own vehicle adorning the hair, and I felt somewhat violated. Not one with a profound inclination for salirophilia, I was forced to confront the situation and decided to get the hell out of there, van or not. The tangible value was negligible in contrast with my trouble. Walking was not something I was used to and the cracks in the pavement drew my attention to a curious extent. I found my knees pressed on the verge of the road to enable my examination of the minimal flora vying for longevity between the separated blocks of stone in obtuse shapes. A bank of stone beside a tarmac river with oases of ants and things that aspired to be weeds; the nature of it all made me feel sick and I was in the right position for it. Heaves were dry and left me reassuringly disappointed, even bear hugging myself to excruciation still did not provoke anything to be expelled. One of the main things I disliked about myself was my inability to vomit. My life was underpinned by nausea but never once had been physically sick, which perhaps was one of the reasons I pruned my own fringe emetophilia. Fringe, as my intrigue was not in the actual gastric evacuation of others, rather the option and ability to indulge in that pursuit. Some generally considered it to be an involuntary action, and that was the apex of my interest as it really seemed to be liberty of choice. Specifically one of my favourite moments was that of the gip: to observe someone skirt the balance of vomiting or not. That particular point of attrition seemed to me to be a philosophical, perhaps even divine moment. I'd read all of the religious texts and found plenty to provoke the essence of regurgitation but nothing to practically assist my desires. My local library had raised some concerns at the number of divine prints I had checked out in order to facilitate this pursuit, and some question was brought about regarding the rapidity of my interpretation of the written word. Retaliating, I kept the last tome I borrowed which was the Book of Mormon.

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